


Socks with Sandals

by MissMaudlin



Category: Emma Approved
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, this is a story about sandals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his first date with Emma Woodhouse, Alex Knightley wears socks with sandals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma pours herself another glass of white wine, her fourth glass of the night. Alex knows he should stop her after this glass, as she’s already tipsy and over-sharing. But she’s curled up against his chest, her body warm and she smells like flowers—he doesn’t know what kind of flowers, because he’s a guy and can only identify roses as flowers that smell good—and she’s talking about every date she’s ever been on. It is, at the very least, enlightening.

His girlfriend, who he’s known for what feels like his entire life, continues to surprise him. Despite her seeming openness and predilection for talking, she can be rather coy about her own true feelings and thoughts. But get a little wine in her and she’ll tell you everything.

“Did I ever tell you about Dan?” she asks, glancing back at him.

Alex thinks a moment. “No, what about him?”

Emma drinks her wine, her other hand gesturing at what Alex can only assume is the thought of Dan. “He took me to that nice Italian restaurant for lunch, oh what is it called—”

“Olive Garden?”

She elbows him before continuing. “Whatever, you know what I mean. And I get all dressed up—dress, kitten heels, the works, I even wear Spanx for this guy—and he comes to the restaurant wearing shorts and guess what else he does."

Emma drains the last of her wine. Alex plucks the glass from her hand, setting it on the coffee table. “What, did he have three arms? A huge binder full of Magic the Gathering cards?”

Emma turns around, her face inches from his. “No,” she says, totally serious. “Worse. He wore _socks with sandals._ ” Her brow is contracted, her eyes narrowed, her voice deep, as if she’s telling him Dan with his socks and sandals was actually a serial killer.

Alex can’t help it. He bursts out laughing. “Seriously? That was his worst crime?” When Emma looks like she’s about to leave his lap, he adds, “Okay, so what did you do?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “What do you think? I left.”

“What, no, you _left_?” Alex stares at her. She’s serious. “That seems kind of harsh, Emma."

Emma turns back around and begins to play with her hair. He knows she does this when she’s uncomfortable, usually with something she’s done that he disapproves of. “It was a sign that he didn’t care about what I thought or wanted. So what was the point of continuing?” She waves a hand. “He was wasting my time.”

Alex grimaces a little, glad she’s turned back around and can’t see him. His girlfriend—smart, funny, beautiful—can also be a total snob. He knows this. He usually can laugh her out of her snobbery and show her how illogical she’s being, but sometimes he worries that she’ll turn that snobbery on him someday. That she’ll see him wearing socks with sandals—metaphorically speaking—and leave, deciding he’s wasting her time.

He feels a little sad now. But Emma is still talking, describing her next date after that with Carl the fashion show director, and he just inhales the smell of her hair and listens to her chatter, enjoying her warmth and that, at least for now, she doesn’t think he’s wasting her time.

***

It’s after two weeks of dating Emma that Alex realizes they’ve never been on a real date. He’s staring at a spreadsheet at 3:39 PM on a Tuesday and suddenly it hits him. Emma has been on dates with Dan of the socks-with-sandals and Carl of the more-fashionable-even-than-Emma but not with him.

But they’ve known each other for…well, forever. Dates are for people who need to get to know each other. Alex knows pretty much everything about Emma.

He then remembers Dan and his socks. Well, maybe not everything.

But he knows she collected every Dooney and Bourke bag in high school and that she takes an average of 2.5 hours to get ready in the morning (they carpooled off and on for years), she went vegan for a month before binging on pizza one night—Emma always has a project she will do, but often doesn’t follow through on—she picks at her nail polish but always says it chips, the list is endless. And within the last two weeks he’s learned that she mumbles in her sleep and stretches like a cat moments before fully awake, her body lean and beautiful and he makes a point to watch her stretch every morning.

But he’s never been on a date with her. He wants, suddenly, to go on a date with her. He wants her to dress up for _him,_ to wear her heels for _him,_ to do whatever she does with her makeup that makes her look so gorgeous he wonders for the millionth time how lucky he is for even catching her eye. Emma Woodhouse, who could have anyone she wanted, chose him.

He stands up from his desk and goes in search of her. She’s in her office, talking to Harriet on the video chat—because apparently Harriet’s desk is too far for her to walk—and he just stands and watches her. She’s wearing some lacy, purple top with skinny black jeans and her hair is in large curls down her back. He can see her picking her nail polish on her ring finger as she talks to Harriet. “Yes, be sure to call the Coles as soon as you can. Oh, and did you order the flowers?” Harriet answers yes, the hydrangeas from the florist downtown, and then the chat ends and he enters.

“Didn’t you just get a manicure?” he asks by way of greeting. She may be his girlfriend now, but he doesn’t feel compelled to stop teasing her.

Emma turns, her face brightening into a smile. She then glances down at her fingers and hides them behind her back. “This polish chips easily,” she explains, her tone attempting to be suitably haughty, but her smile undercuts her tone. “Did you need something?”

Alex really wants to kiss her but refuses to kiss her at work. Everyone knows they’re dating, but he thinks PDA at work is always inappropriate. He wishes he’d never said that he wouldn’t kiss Emma at work. If he could kick himself in the ass, he would. But he can’t break his word now. He’d never live it down.

“I was looking at that spreadsheet Maddy just sent over and thought of you.”

Emma laughs and raises her meticulously shaped eyebrows. “I’m not sure how I should take that.”

Alex rocks back on his heels. Suddenly, he’s nervous. Why should he be nervous? This is Emma. Emma Woodhouse, who followed him everywhere when they were kids, whose dance recitals he attended, who he drove to school when Izzy didn’t want to drive her kid sister anymore. “I just realized,” he begins. “We’ve never been on a date.”

Emma bounces up, standing in front of him now. “Alex Knightley! I thought you’d never ask.” She pets his chest, looking up at him from under her lashes and he knows if she asks him to get her a diamond ring from the depths of the Pacific with only a snorkel and a net he’d do it. “Where do you want to take me?” she asks. “I have a few ideas—”

He covers her hand, which is pulling on his tie, one Emma chose for him and he wears just to make her happy. “No, it’s a surprise. I’ll pick you up at 1:00 on Saturday.”

Emma pouts a little but doesn’t argue. Instead, her fingers walk their way up his tie until she grabs it below his collar, bringing him down to her. She kisses him, her lip gloss slick and tasting of strawberries.

“Emma,” he chides, although his heart isn’t in it.

“Mr. Knightley,” she replies. “You only said that you wouldn’t kiss me _._ You never said _I_ couldn’t kiss _you_.”

Then she kisses him again and he doesn’t care if everyone in the entire city watches them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got more serious than initially intended. Ah, well. TBC!


	2. Chapter 2

It was meant to be a joke, really. Alex knows he likes to rile Emma, to see her purse her lips while she struggles not to overreact. He finds this adorable and hilarious and every time he manages to get Emma riled he wants to kiss her.

So he thought when he decided to do this. No harm in teasing his easily teased girlfriend, he reasons. Alex would never do anything to hurt Emma.

When he arrives at her apartment—they have yet to discuss moving in with each other, as they’ve only just started dating—he waits with baited breath for her reaction. For her pursed lips and haughty hair toss and nose crinkle when he knows she’s about to laugh but refuses to because that would mean she thinks he’s being funny. Emma will never admit that boring Mr. Knightley can be funny.

But when she opens the door, her face aglow and smiling, he watches as the smile disappears as she takes him in. Her lips don’t purse, her nose doesn’t crinkle. Instead, her expression goes curiously blank, even cold. It disappears as quickly as it begins, but Alex, for the first time, wonders if he made a mistake.

“What are you wearing?” Emma asks. Her voice is even, but she isn’t laughing. She isn’t even smiling.

Alex glances down at his socks and sandals. He’s wearing his Tevas with socks up to his knees, plus shorts. He looks ridiculous. Suddenly, he wonders if he should lose the socks and just wear the sandals bare. But he doesn’t want to let on that he may have made a mistake, that his joke is not so funny. So instead he tries to laugh it off. “What, don’t you like my outfit?”

Emma pulls her hair off to one side, exposing the lovely curve of her neck. She twiddles with a strand of hair, obviously refusing to look at his sandal-and-sock-clad feet. And then she lets her hair fall and forces a smile, laughing even a little. “So, where are you taking me?” she asks, dodging his question entirely. “I hope it’s somewhere a-ma-zing and Emma approved.”

Alex watches her a moment before replying. She seems to have shed her initial reaction. He wants to take that at face value, that she’s not truly hurt or upset or angry with him. He just wanted to make her laugh and ruffle her pristine feathers a little. “It’s still a surprise. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

When they get out of the car thirty minutes later, Emma laughs when she sees where they are. “You brought me to the Santa Monica Pier? Seriously?” Taking Alex’s arm, she adds, “You are so cliché."

It’s a bright, sunny day, and the Los Angeles sun makes the pier and its rides seem almost painfully bright against the backdrop of the sharp blue sky. Alex hasn’t been to the Santa Monica Pier in years—not since grade school, if he remembers correctly. It hasn’t changed in the years since he’s been there. The Ferris wheel still turns, the screams of riders still bounce through the air, and around him families and children and couples walk around, talking, laughing, eating and enjoying themselves.

“Maybe cliché,” he replies, “But you haven’t gone on the slowest rollercoaster ever with me yet.”

“The slowest rollercoaster ever?” Emma pulls her purse up her arm. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Come on.” Alex pulls her along, his sandaled feet clopping against the boardwalk as they enter the park. A few people stare at them, as they make an odd couple: him with his giant socks and his girlfriend, perfectly outfitted in a cherry printed dress, her lipstick bright red, her wedges coordinated with her dress.

Emma is as pretty as the first day of spring, Alex thinks. He knows that sounds ridiculous and romantic and it’s because he’s so in love with her and he remembers his sadness earlier in the week. _He was wasting my time_ , she said. And he curses at himself for being an idiot by wearing these stupid sandals and socks just to get a rise out of Emma. He’s usually so methodical—his pants perfectly folded in his closet, his shoes shined, his shirts ironed—that he doesn’t know what happened to him this morning. A mixture of fear, giddiness, love and embarrassment boil together until Alex doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

He is, he realizes, a complete mess. And it’s all because of Emma Woodhouse.

But he wants to enjoy himself today. So he takes Emma to the slowest rollercoaster ever, waiting in line with the rest of the families and couples. She’s quiet, though. Too quiet.

“Hey,” Alex begins. “Are you okay?”

Emma looks up, and she smiles. “Fine. Sorry, just thinking.” Straightening his shirt collar, she adds, “I haven’t been here in ages. I can’t even remember the last time my dad took me here.”

“Me either. Probably not since elementary school. I think we had a field trip here.”

Emma brightens, the memories lighting her eyes. “I remember! Mrs. Godwin’s class! Third grade, wasn’t it? I remember being so jealous when you got to go and I wanted to be in third grade so badly.” She smiles wryly. “By the time I was in third grade, you were too old to be jealous of me going.”

Alex laughs. Emma, even as a child, had tried to get his attention, to prove herself, to show she was capable and independent and one-of-a-kind. “I just remember that you were all legs and hair, really.”

Emma smacks him on the arm. “Mr. Knightley! I was not. I was an adorable child.”

“Mmm, depends on your definition of adorable."

Huffing, Emma turns toward the rollercoaster as one of the cars zooms by. “Well, I remember a certain Alex Knightley wearing headgear in the sixth grade—"

“Hey now—"

“And then so much metal in his mouth that you could have stuck him to a refrigerator and never gotten him un-stuck—"

“That’s not even remotely true, since braces are made of steel, not iron—"

Emma turns. “And didn’t you have a mullet then, too?” She gestures to his hair. “A nice, long mullet?”

Alex grabs her, pulling her close. “It was not a mullet,” he says into her neck as she squirms. She smells like flowers and strawberries and just Emma. “It was the ‘90s. My hair was _cool_.”

Emma giggles and wiggles away from him. “It was definitely a mullet, Mr. Knightley. I have photographic evidence.”

When they get on the rollercoaster, Alex puts his arm around Emma, holding her as closely as the ride will allow. “Get ready to be amazed,” he intones. He tries to look serious. “The slowest rollercoaster ever."

Emma leans forward, her forehead touching his. “Bring it.”

The rollercoaster lurches forward, trundling across the tracks. It moves and turns with the patience of a turtle, never jerky and never stealing their breath. As they reach one of the peaks, Alex puts his hands up, Emma following his example. When they’re almost at the top, Alex starts yelling, a high-pitched, idiotic yell into the air. The guy behind them starts screaming, thinking they’re about to go down. But instead, they just tip down slightly before trundling down the hill, leisurely making their way down until they’re level again.

Emma bursts out laughing. “You’re right, this is the slowest rollercoaster ever.”

“Told you."

They make it safely to the end, never going beyond 10 miles an hour. Emma’s hair isn’t even wind-blown: the curls fall down her back in perfect spools, the blonde streaks gleaming in the sun. She is, he suddenly thinks, stunningly beautiful, to the point that his chest constricts.

He takes her arm, pulling her close. “What do you want to do next?”

As Emma is about to reply, a teenager with spiked hair walks past, looking Alex up and down. “Hey man,” he yells, “Nice socks!"

Whatever spell that had been cast previously breaks. Emma pulls away from him, as if she just realized he’s wearing these stupid socks and sandals again. Her lips pull downward, and Alex is suddenly terrified that she’s going to start crying. It’s an odd, unsettling reaction: not remotely like the Emma he’s come to expect.

Turning away from him, she starts to walk away when Alex takes her hand. “Wait, Emma, what’s wrong?”

She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. The crowd moves about them as they stay still, as he waits for her to answer him. But she’s silent, stiff, unyielding, and it’s this Emma that scares him the most. The silent Emma is the unsure Emma, the angry Emma, the bored Emma. The Emma that looks at him and says he’s wasting her time.

“I’m tired,” she replies. “I’m going to get something to drink.” And then she does pull away, walking toward one of the stands selling bottles of water and soda. Her dress trails behind her slightly, the cherries bright red against the stark white of the fabric. Her shoulders curve inward, like she’s caving in on herself.

Alex stands for a moment, watching her walk away. He wants to call out to her again, beg her to return, and then he feels stupid because she’s just getting water, he’s overreacting, why is he so terrified? Why does being with Emma fill him with the greatest happiness and sharpest terror he’s ever known?

He watches as Emma pays for her water, her smile small, her lips ruby red. She captivates the teenage boy, who takes her money with something akin to wonder and worship: she’s a goddess amongst men, a spirit you can’t catch, a genie free of her lamp. So many absurd metaphors filter through Alex’s mind and he knows he’s being a fool.

But he can’t stop it because Emma—beautiful, lovely Emma Woodhouse—renders him so very foolish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how about that latest episode? SQUEEEE. I'm still recovering.
> 
> I should add that I have been to the Santa Monica Pier a total of one time and only remember riding the slowest rollercoaster ever. It may not even exist anymore. But let's say that it does for the sake of this story, eh?


End file.
